


The Pictures in Your Skin

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: First Poem for You [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out that surviving an archdemon is a good way to put everything else into perspective.</p><p>Or: In which Alistair and Zevran do an excellent job of communicating very poorly but still manage to work it out in the end.</p><p>This is Zevran/Alistair, Take 2.  Not because I'm unhappy with Take 1, but just because I'm having fun playing with what their relationship would look like.  In case it's not obvious, this fic is in no way continuous with "Off Label."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pictures in Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> When I pull you  
> to me, taking you until we’re spent  
> and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss  
> the pictures in your skin.  
> ********************************************************  
> So this fic wasn't supposed to be so long. It also wasn't supposed to be even remotely serious. Not that it's all _that_ serious, but it's definitely more serious than it was supposed to be. Somehow, a character arc showed up in the middle of my porn. Hmph.
> 
> Also, I realize that it's highly improbable that the palace would be in decent shape after the fight with the archdemon, but we're going to ignore that. 'Kay? 'Kay!

The archdemon falls, and that's the first impossibility. No matter how bravely he talked, deep in his heart he was never convinced they could actually do this without Duncan, and so when the archdemon finally stops thrashing, Alistair can't do anything but stare. That twitching corpse is two impossibilities in one: the first that it's a corpse at all, and the second that he's still here to see it. Selfish as it is, the second impossibility is the one that hits him hardest.

He's alive, and he shouldn't be.

Those are the words echoing in his head as they make their way back through Denerim, the words beating in his skull as they chase down the handful of darkspawn they somehow overlooked on the way in, the words thudding underneath each footstep, each heartbeat, each breath.

He's alive, and he shouldn't be.

He shouldn't be alive, but he is.

He's covered in blood, every muscle burning, one leg of his armor so dented that his gait is pulled up short with every step. The reek of burned flesh follows him like a cloud, and his hair is still on end from the archdemon's dying scream. None of it matters, because he's alive, and if the Maker is merciful--which suddenly seems possible--then the others are alive, too.

One other in particular.

Because he shouldn't be alive, but he is, and Cousland actually _wants_ the throne Alistair has tried to avoid all his life, and if Zevran is alive, then Alistair will...will...

Well, he'll do something. Exactly what is still a bit vague, seeing as templar training wasn't overly concerned with the art of seduction, and Alistair is ill-suited to it in any case. But he's smart; he'll think of something. If Andraste smiles on him, maybe it will even be something minimally embarrassing.

He's deep in his own distracted thoughts when Cousland shouts a warning, and Alistair barely gets his shield up in time to block the arrow aimed at his head. There's another crowd of darkspawn between them and the city's gate, with the army pressing hard from the other side. Alistair has never known darkspawn to be particularly interested in surrendering, but with the archdemon dead, they're more desperate than ever: not just rabid dogs, but _cornered_ rabid dogs.

The fight is brutal, and for a little while, all Alistair can think about is staying between Wynne and the darkspawn. A distant part of him is admiring the ironic possibility of surviving an archdemon only to die by a hurlock's arrow, but Alistair ignores that part. He's alive, and he's going to stay that way, because he has too many things he needs to do. None of which include being king, and that's worth staying alive for all by itself.

In front of him, a hurlock raises its crossbow just in time to get a knife across its throat, and its collapsing body reveals Zevran, bloody and grinning. He winks at Alistair before spinning on his heel to kick the shriek coming up behind him, and his blond hair swirls with the movement, as graceful as everything about him even when it's streaked with blood.

"Alistair!" Wynne shouts, and how can an old woman have lungs like that? It's unnatural.

Natural or not, he turns to find her hard-pressed by a genlock alpha. Alistair can remember being afraid of them, once upon a time, but he's fought so many now that he hardly thinks before he steps forward and stabs it in the kidneys. Or where its kidneys would be if it were human; genlock anatomy is another subject the templars didn't cover, and the only thing the Wardens cared about was whether it worked. The why was for someone else to worry about, especially with an archdemon on the loose.

Alistair puts himself between Wynne and the remaining darkspawn, but even as he does, Cousland deals with the last of them, and the square is suddenly quiet.

The others are crowding around now, all except Morrigan, who's nowhere to be seen. Cousland gets a shifty-eyed look when Alistair wonders about it aloud, but there's no time to pursue the issue because Zevran is suddenly right in front of him.

"You survived, I see!" Zevran says with a grin.

He's alive, and he shouldn't be, and he's going to...going to...

...going to stand here nodding like an idiot, tongue-tied and empty-headed, until Zevran moves on to sling an arm around Wynne's shoulders. "And you, oh most beautiful of enchanters! My heart-"

There's the snap of lightning, and Zevran laughs. "Ah, still so aloof. A pity!"

Alistair's shoulders droop as Zevran wanders in Cousland's direction, and his mind is once again full of the doubts that have kept him silent this long. Zevran flirts with everyone; the winks and small touches he directs at Alistair mean nothing, and even if they did, Zevran has slept with more people in the last week than Alistair has in his entire life. Which doesn't mean much, since Zevran would only have had to sleep with one person to make that statement true, and Alistair's woeful lack of experience is-

No. He's done with this stupid indecision. He's alive, and he shouldn't be, and he's bloody well going to make the most of it. The worst that can happen is Zevran rejects him--which possibility does make him cringe--but in a week he'll be gone, headed toward Amaranthine and the daunting task of re-establishing Ferelden's Grey Wardens.

If he can face an archdemon, he can face one lone elf. One lone elf who also happens to be a Crow. And significantly more experienced-

No, no, and no.

Alistair straightens and looks around for Zevran, just as an entire horde of ecstatic soldiers descend on them. The darkspawn would actually be preferable, and Alistair curses silently as Zevran is swept away by the crowd.

###

There are speeches--there are _always_ speeches, in Alistair's experience, and people wonder why he doesn't want to be king--and cheering and singing and more speeches and more cheering, but eventually they make it to the palace. Some of the stones are scorched and much of the lighter furniture is broken, but the walls and roof are intact, and that's enough for now. The rest of it is Cousland's problem, and Alistair can’t help but smile at the reminder that no one will be trying to force a crown onto his head.

Zevran has vanished, and Alistair is torn between disappointment and relief. Now that the battle fever is wearing off, he's not entirely sure he wants to risk being laughed at. The farther he gets from the archdemon's corpse, the more he dreads the potential mockery.

So when he finds his room and strips out of his armor, he goes looking for a bath rather than a certain elf. He may not have much experience with seduction, but common sense dictates that his chance of success will be improved if he's clean. With the state the palace and the city are in, he won't be surprised if it's a cold bath with no soap, but it's better than nothing.

Some thoughtful soul has been there ahead of him, though, and no cold bath will be necessary: steam hits him in the face as soon as he opens the door, carrying with it the smell of harsh soap and hot stones. Despite that, Alistair almost turns tail and runs, because Zevran is alone in the room, reclining in one of the tubs with his head tilted back against the edge.

Alistair freezes, caught between his fear of embarrassment and his desire to lick the skin so casually displayed. Water darkens Zevran's hair, a few wisps floating around his head as it begins to dry, and Alistair can imagine burying his face in it, breathing in the smell until his lungs are filled with it.

Zevran's eyes open, and Alistair glances hastily away, as if searching the room for someone else. He briefly considers pretending he came looking for Cousland and taking the excuse to retreat, but he forces his feet to carry him forward into the breach.

That's about as far as his willpower extends, though; he doesn't make eye contact, not even when Zevran says, "I see you escaped your admirers."

Alistair makes a noise of agreement without really paying attention to the words. His heart is beating faster than it did during the fight with the archdemon, and he wonders if he's going to be ill. That would destroy even his slim hope of seducing Zevran, so he swallows hard and focuses on taking off his clothes.

As he peels off his tunic, he keeps his back turned, partly out of embarrassed modesty and partly because he can't stand to know if Zevran is watching him. He can't say which would be worse, to be stared at or ignored, only that he thinks he might run if he has to face either one.

He fills a bucket with hot water and scrubs himself thoroughly, finding blood and dirt in a number of improbable places. When the water in the bucket is grey and foamy, he dumps it and starts over, rubbing soap everywhere until his skin tingles. A third round is tempting, except he knows he's just stalling now, so he dumps the bucket and heads for the tubs.

Cowardice tries to steer him toward the nearest, which is empty, but he looks at the floor and keeps walking until he's beside the one where Zevran is soaking.

"Feel free to join me," Zevran says, in that low, sultry voice he uses when he's trying to fluster Alistair.

It does as good a job as ever, and Alistair can feel himself blushing even over the heat in the room. Still without making eye contact, Alistair climbs in and sits on the bench opposite Zevran. His chest feels like the archdemon is sitting on it, turning every breath into a struggle.

A foot brushes across his calf, light and teasing, and Alistair holds very still. This, too, is part of the game Zevran has played since his first night in camp, and it doesn't necessarily mean anything. Maker knows he's taken far greater liberties in the past.

Though in the past, Alistair has always protested, afraid of letting things progress to the point where he has to reveal his ignorance. This time, he does nothing, and the foot comes back, drifting up the back of his leg to his knee. He can feel his cock beginning to grow hard as lust wins over fear, and his hands clench into fists beneath the water.

"Alistair," Zevran says softly. It's nothing like his usual tone, and Alistair looks up in confusion, expecting to see a teasing smile, or outright mockery.

He sees neither. Zevran is regarding him curiously, head cocked to one side and eyes intent. Words crowd up in Alistair's throat, but there are so many that none of them can get out. All he can do is stare mutely back, wishing desperately that he was slightly less pathetic.

Zevran's foot moves away, and Alistair thinks about grabbing for it. Before he can, Zevran pushes off from his side of the tub, floating across the narrow gap between them. His eyes remain locked on Alistair's face the whole time, as if he's waiting for some sign. If Alistair had any idea what the right sign was, he would give it, but his mouth is dry and his mind is blank.

Then Zevran is settling in his lap, his hands cupping Alistair's cheeks, his mouth moving slowly closer. He's still watching Alistair, a faint frown between his eyebrows, but that's the point where Alistair's body finally decides to cooperate and his hands grab for Zevran's hips, pulling him in tighter. That makes Zevran smile, though it's still not his usual smirk. Before Alistair can analyze it, Zevran kisses him gently, and everything else disappears.

His lips are warm and roughened, chaste at first as they brush across Alistair's mouth from one corner to the other before pressing harder. His tongue is a surprise, and when Alistair gasps, it strokes into his mouth, warm and wet, pushing deeper, parting Alistair's lips, and he pushes back, his own mouth moving in awkward imitation. Zevran's hands keep control of his head, holding him steady and still as Zevran's tongue moves against his.

Eventually, one of those hands curls around the back of his head as the other trails down his chest, and Alistair groans as Zevran's fingers close on his cock. He wouldn't have thought there was any particular skill required in jerking someone off, but he would have been wrong, because Zevran seems to know his body better than he does. In an embarrassingly short period of time, he's spilling into Zevran's hand, his groans echoing off the stone walls.

When he sinks back onto the bench and opens his eyes, Zevran is smiling at him. His smile is still not right, but Alistair can't say what's wrong with it, only that the wrongness goes beyond the absence of a lecherous gleam.

"There," Zevran murmurs. "Good, eh?"

As if they're at a banquet, and Zevran has shared some new and exotic food. Not at all what Alistair wants, leaving aside his embarrassing lack of control, and when Zevran starts to drift backward, away from him, confusion and embarrassment almost hold Alistair silent.

No. He's alive, and he's going to do this.

"Don't," he says, reaching for Zevran. "Stay, please, let me..." He swallows. "Let me touch you."

Zevran's whole body goes still, his blank face revealing none of his thoughts.

"I want to do...that," Alistair stumbles, struggling for words, "for you. Or whatever you want to do, just...don't go."

The pause that follows is so painful that even Alistair's tendency to babble is silenced.

"As you wish," Zevran says at last, almost too low to be heard. Then he adds, a little louder, "I will meet you in your room." He's out of the tub before Alistair can grab him, and his habitual smirk is firmly in place as he looks over his shoulder. "Don't forget to drain the tub."

The tub? Why would he-?

Oh. Probably because no one wants to soak in water where he...

Right.

Zevran has somehow managed to dry off, get dressed, and disappear while Alistair was frowning in confusion at the bath water. Or at least, he's disappeared; no telling whether he actually got dressed first. The thought of a naked, dripping Zevran running through the palace hallways makes him laugh, and he heaves himself out of the tub.

###

It takes him long enough to drain and refill the tub that Zevran is already in his room, lounging naked on the bed in the dim glow of the dying fire. He has one knee up, the other leg stretched out in front of him, and his arms crossed behind his head, so clearly on display that Alistair is vaguely unnerved. It's too practiced, too calculating, and he wants to say something, but he doesn't have the words to explain his discomfort any more than he had the words in the bathing room to explain what he wants to do to Zevran.

His body certainly appreciates the pose, even if his brain finds it too...well... _posed_ , and what does he know about any of this anyway? If the plan is to have sex--and the plan is definitely to have sex--then doesn't it make sense for Zevran to be naked? And isn't it a good thing that Zevran wants Alistair to see him?

That brief moment of hesitation feels silly once he's on the bed, Zevran stripping him efficiently and pressing him down to the mattress. With Zevran lying on top of him, all he can think about is how much he loves the feel of Zevran's skin against his own, and how much he wants to touch every part of him. His hands are shaking, but he ignores it and touches the tattoo swirling across Zevran's chest.

Zevran bumps his arm gently aside, turning his body so he can reach between Alistair's legs, behind his balls. Alistair doesn't know what he's expecting, but it isn't Zevran's slick fingers fucking him open with careful deliberation while Zevran kisses him, their tongues moving against each other in time to those fingers.

When he's twisting on the blankets and begging for more, Zevran says against his mouth, "Hands and knees."

Alistair hesitates. He knows he should do as he was told, given that Zevran has about a hundred times more experience than he does, but being a virgin doesn't mean he's completely innocent. "I want-" He stops, clears his throat, tries again. "I want to see your face."

Zevran's expression is shuttered--again? still?--and when he smiles at last, it looks as wrong as it did before. Though maybe it's just the flickering firelight, because his cock is hard and he's spreading Alistair's legs to kneel between them, and doesn't that mean that everything's all right?

There's too much happening, too many things Alistair doesn't understand, but when he opens his mouth to say something, Zevran kisses him again, and his cock is pushing against Alistair's ass, and _oh, Maker..._

Alistair whimpers, overwhelmed by the sensation. It's more than the fact that Zevran's cock is broader than his fingers; it's the knowledge that it _is_ Zevran's cock fucking into him, stretching him wide and thrusting deep inside him, over and over again.

"Maker," he whispers, and Zevran's smile changes, becomes exactly right as he thrusts a little harder, a little faster.

The smile changes again, though, when Alistair reaches up to touch the tattoo on his cheek. Not that he gets much time to see the smile, wrong or not: Zevran ducks his head away from Alistair's fingers, leaning down at an impossible angle to take the head of Alistair's cock in his mouth.

"Maker!" It slips out, not at all a whisper now.

He holds on as long as he can, determined to last longer than last time, but Zevran knows exactly how to move and where to thrust to have him tumbling over that edge before he's ready, sparks bursting across his vision as his muscles clench and his body shakes.

His eyes closed when he wasn't paying attention, and he opens them to Zevran watching him. There's no smile at all now, right or wrong, just a look of intense concentration, a look Alistair last saw in the Temple of Sacred Ashes as Zevran puzzled over an invisible bridge.

He doesn't remember wrapping his legs around Zevran's waist any more than he remembers closing his eyes, but there they are, so he squeezes them, trying wordlessly to encourage Zevran to stop thinking and go back to moving. All his words are scattered, his mouth unable to form them even if his brain could somehow find them, and really, he doesn't care about the words if Zevran will only _move._

Then he does, bending forward to prop his elbows on the pillow, and his mouth rests against Alistair's as he rocks his hips. Still dazed from his own climax, Alistair can't do anything except lie there and watch Zevran's face from an inch away. His eyes are wide and black, and his breath is warm and quick against Alistair's face, and when he comes in a rush of heat, Alistair shudders with him.

Alistair feels like his whole body has been recast in lead, heavy and soft, and he wants nothing more than to sleep for the next month. He fights the urge, gazing up until Zevran's eyes open. There's still no smile, but his expression is perfect anyway: tender and warm enough to make Alistair's skin flush.

Then Zevran blinks and turns away, and Alistair really can't keep his eyes open any longer, not after the day he's had. The last thing he feels is Zevran's kiss on his forehead, and the last thing he hears is Zevran's voice murmuring, "Duérmete, querido mio."

###

Alistair wakes a few times in the night, and each time, Zevran is there. His face is hidden in shadows, but his fingers comb through Alistair's hair as he whispers to him in Antivan, until sleep drags Alistair under again.

Just before dawn, Alistair wakes to an empty bed and a sense of deep confusion. Zevran was here--Alistair knows he was, can still smell him on the sheets, remembers his voice whispering in the darkness--but he's definitely not here now. His clothes are gone, Alistair's draped over the end of the bed, and there's no sign that anything happened here last night except a lot of sleeping.

As tired as he is, Alistair scrambles out of bed. He can't say what he's afraid of, just that something is pushing him to drag on his trousers and bolt from the room without bothering to put on his boots or his tunic. Zevran's room is a corridor over, and Alistair bursts through the door, slightly out of breath and more than slightly relieved when the room isn't empty.

Zevran looks up, and he's wearing that same carefully blank expression from last night. He's also packing, and Alistair supposes he should be grateful he didn't sleep any later: the room is already stripped bare of any sign someone was here. It's clear that with a few more minutes, Zevran would already be gone.

"You're leaving?" he asks. It's a stupid question, because of course Zevran is leaving--no one packs their bags when they're staying--but he asks it anyway.

"It's time," Zevran says. His expression is cool, and Alistair feels like there's a continent between them rather than one small room. "Taliesin is dead, but if I stay here, the Crows will learn of my presence soon enough. Cousland has been more than generous, and the coin should take me far enough that I will likely be able to hide for a while."

Should. Likely. For a while. Each word is a blow, the grim practicality of them horrifying. However Zevran dresses it up, he's heading off to die alone, sooner or later. "You could come with me to Amaranthine," Alistair blurts out. "A whole keep of Grey Wardens would be good protection."

"No," Zevran says. His voice is quiet, but there's iron under it. "That would not be a good idea."

"Why not?" Alistair presses. "I know there won't be many of us to start with, but-"

"Alistair."

"-by the time the Crows know you're alive-"

"Alistair."

"-there would be plenty of us-"

" _Alistair._ Stop."

It's not easy, but he swallows the rest of his arguments. The embarrassment now flooding him helps, closing off his throat as he realizes what a fool he's been. He should have gone with his first instinct: avoided Zevran last night and so avoided rejection this morning. What, exactly, did he expect from someone who's never shown the slightest interest in remaining with a lover past dawn? Why did he think he would be any different?

And why did he think that this pain would somehow be _better_ than the regret he would have felt if he'd gone to Amaranthine without saying anything?

He wants to say something witty, but nothing comes to mind. "I'm sorry," he says stiffly. "I...shouldn't have assumed you would want to stay with-" Mortified, he shuts his mouth before anything else can escape.

Too late. Zevran's chin comes up, and his cool expression is swallowed by anger. "What I want? When has that ever mattered? When has it ever mattered what anyone wanted?"

"I don't want to be king," Alistair offers, his mouth spouting words the way it does whenever he's nervous, "and look, I don't have to be. So that's something."

Zevran puts two fingers against the bridge of his nose, looking pained, his mouth still pinched tight in anger. "Yes, all right, it is indeed something. But I cannot go with you to Amaranthine."

His word choice is interesting, given that the conversation was about wanting what he can't have. A foolish hope takes root in Alistair's chest, and maybe he's grasping at straws, making a connection where none exists, but he didn't survive an archdemon to abandon this fight without trying. "Do you _want_ to come with me?"

"No!" Zevran snaps, looking away. "No, I do not want to come with you to Amaranthine so you can treat me like a brother, or a friend, so I can watch you find other lovers, so I can be available when it's convenient for you." He snatches up his pack with one hand, his cloak with the other. "I do not want to suck your cock and then be sent away, oh-so-sweetly, until the next time you wish to entertain yourself."

He tries to sidestep Alistair to get to the door, and Alistair steps with him. "Get out of my way," Zevran says, his tone icy calm once again. "Or I will make you, and neither of us will like it."

Alistair knows he should be angry, but the hope inside him is growing and there's no room for anything else. "You left," he says, his voice so hoarse he barely recognizes it.

"What?" Zevran demands.

"You left," he says again, getting his voice under control. "This morning. You left. I didn't ask you to."

Zevran sneers at him. "And if you had woken to find me there, you would have been so pleased?"

"Yes," Alistair says without hesitation.

"Bullshit," Zevran snaps, and he's still wearing that awful sneer. "I have watched you scorn every man and woman I took to bed over the last year, looking down on them and on me from your lofty perch, so superior in your 'purity,' as if you were so much better than us."

"I don't think I'm better than you!" Alistair protests. There are a number of things he had hoped he would never be required to admit, but he'd rather admit them than let Zevran leave like this. "I wanted to _be_ them, or be there with them, or watch them with you-" And oh, Maker, he truly had not wanted to admit that part, but at least he catches the rest of it before he admits to how many times he touched himself while listening to the noises from Zevran's tent.

He takes a deep breath and forges on. "I just...I didn't know how to tell you, and I was afraid you'd laugh at me."

"Laugh at you for what?" Zevran asks. His tone is harsh, but his expression is softening into something more like confusion than anger.

"For being ignorant! I don't have any idea what to do, how to...to make someone...feel good. Or I didn't, and I guess I know a little now, but not very much, and I only know that because you showed me, and why would you _not_ laugh at me? I wanted to say something, I started to probably a hundred times, but every time I thought about it, I'd just think about you laughing, and I couldn't do it." He stops and sucks in a deep breath, aware he's babbling and unable to stop. "I want you, I want you to stay, I want you to stay so much."

"Do not lie to me," Zevran says, but he's whispering now.

"I don't lie," Alistair says, and he can't help his sheepish smile. "I've always been terrible at it anyway."

Zevran snorts as if he's trying to hold back a laugh but can't quite manage it. "This is very true." His pack starts to slip from one shoulder and he bounces it back into place, though Alistair wishes he'd just let it fall.

"When you looked at me last night," Zevran says, his eyes fixed on the floor, "I thought you only wanted to celebrate your victory. Our victory. It is...a reasonable thing to want, and I thought I could give it to you without involving...other things." He sighs. "I do not know why I thought I would be able to do so, when I have wanted you for quite some time."

Hope blossoms into something else, something more, and Alistair doesn't bother to hide his delighted smile. "Even when you thought that I thought I was better than you?"

He can just see the corner of Zevran's mouth turn up in a smile. "Even then."

Maybe those aren't the exact words Alistair was hoping to hear, but the meaning is there, and he's smiling so broadly his cheeks ache. Zevran doesn't fight him when he takes the pack and cloak away, and doesn't try to pull his hand back when Alistair raises it to his lips. The art of seduction is still mostly a mystery to him--if Zevran hadn't taken the lead last night, Maker knows whether Alistair would have been able to gather the nerve--but he's watched enough courtiers to hope maybe this is what he should do.

Touching his lips to Zevran's knuckles doesn't feel quite right, though, so he tries it again, letting his tongue trace one of the dozens of small scars that decorate the hand in his. One scar crosses another, and that one crosses a third, leading him around to Zevran's palm and all the myriad creases there. He can taste salt and leather, and Zevran, as he licks and kisses his way along the thumb to suck lightly on the tip.

He has no idea if this is even a thing people do, but Zevran isn't stopping him and isn't laughing, so he can't be too far off track.

"Alistair," Zevran says, and Alistair straightens without letting go of his hand. The look he's getting has more confusion in it than anything else, and that's not right. He pulls Zevran in, bending down to kiss him, trying to remember what Zevran showed him last night even as all his blood is rushing south.

Zevran's arms loop around his neck, first one and then the other, and he uses them to pull himself up so that his legs are wrapped around Alistair's waist. "The bed is that way," he says helpfully, gesturing backward with a tilt of his head, and he's starting to smile.

"I can see it," Alistair says, gripping the backs of Zevran's thighs to hold him in place. "I just don't want to drop you."

"You won't," Zevran says and kisses him again.

Alistair manages to get them both to the bed with a reasonable amount of grace, neither dropping Zevran nor tripping. As soon as his back hits the mattress, Zevran is wriggling out of his clothes, and Alistair is happy to help, tugging his boots off for him and generally making sure that everything that can be removed has been. Each piece of clothing he takes off is one more Zevran has to put back on before he can leave, and while Alistair thinks maybe that's not a problem anymore, it can't hurt to make it just a little bit more difficult.

Last night, he hadn't realized Zevran was holding back, but now it becomes clear that he was. This time there's no rushing once they're both naked, no hurry to finish, and no attempts to avoid eye contact. In fact, Zevran's eyes are almost constantly on him, and his hands move languidly, like he's memorizing Alistair's body. When Alistair tries again to lick one of his tattoos, Zevran doesn't distract or divert him, just stretches out under him as if this simple act, Alistair's mouth tracing the line of his tattoos, is the only thing he wants right now.

It's all Alistair wants right now, too, to follow those lines like trails across Zevran's chest and over onto his back, learning the arc of his hips and the curve of his spine, but when he reaches Zevran's ass, he hesitates.

"You needn't continue," Zevran says, a little breathless, and Alistair notices he didn't say " _Don't_ continue," so he steels himself and follows the tattoo down.

It ends at the base of Zevran's spine, but Alistair keeps going, between the cheeks of Zevran's ass. Despite his squeamishness, it's just skin like any other, tasting of nothing more than salt, and he relaxes, exploring more thoroughly. Because it's not quite skin like any other: Zevran writhes under him, moaning as if Alistair has a hand on his cock, and he's eager to come up on his knees with very little encouragement.

Alistair spreads him wide with his thumbs and licks into him, a little cautiously, then less so when Zevran moans his name. The deeper he goes, the more noise Zevran makes, but his tongue can only go so far. Frustrated, he adds one finger, trying to mimic what Zevran did to him last night. The problem is, he hadn't really been paying attention, what with everything else going on, and it turns out that translating what he felt into what he needs to do is not as easy as it could be.

Fortunately, Zevran has enough experience to make up for Alistair's lack, _and_ he's somehow retained enough presence of mind to be able to provide instructions. It's almost like playing Warmer-Colder as a child, except that instead of a toy or a sweet, he gets Zevran, crying out and clutching at the blankets, and Andraste's mercy, why is he even thinking about children's games right now?

"More," Zevran demands, and Alistair stops thinking completely.

He takes his hand away long enough to get Zevran to turn onto his back, then presses two fingers back inside. Watching his fingers sliding in and out of Zevran's ass--not to mention watching Zevran's eyelids flutter closed when he finds the right spot--has him panting as if he's the one being fucked.

It bends his wrist at an awkward angle, but he manages to lean forward to kiss Zevran, feeling the mouth under his shape curses as he curls and uncurls his fingers. He wants to stroke himself, but he doesn't have the necessary coordination to add one more thing to what he's already doing.

"Touch me," he begs.

Zevran being Zevran, he strokes Alistair's back and grins up into his mouth, teasing him.

"Touch my _cock_ ," Alistair says.

Zevran makes a noise that's halfway between a laugh and a moan, but instead of doing what Alistair asked, he suddenly twists away and off the bed. "Don't move," he says.

On his knees, Alistair blinks after him, too confused to do anything else, too confused to even tense when Zevran grabs his pack and empties the contents onto the floor with no regard for how sturdy or fragile they might be. "Ha!" Zevran mutters, snatching something out of the mess before crossing back to the bed to shove Alistair over onto his back.

Zevran's mouth and hands are everywhere, frantic now, almost as hurried as he was last night, but unlike last night, he pauses every few seconds to look up at Alistair's face. Every time he does, he smiles so broadly Alistair has to smile in turn. He probably looks like a complete fool, and so long as Zevran keeps smiling back, he really doesn't care.

"Is this what you wanted?" Zevran asks, mock-innocently, as his slick hand strokes Alistair's cock. "Or perhaps you were thinking of something else?"

"Yes!" Alistair gasps, then realizes he doesn't know which question he just answered. "No! I-" His throat locks for a second as Zevran's thumb rubs over the head of his cock, teasing at the slit. "I don't care, just...just...Maker!...just so long as it's you!"

Zevran's hand stops, and Alistair realizes what he said, his face going pale and then red. "Ummm," he says intelligently, afraid to meet Zevran's eyes. "I...I guess that was too much?"

The silence is thunderous, and then it's echoingly empty as Zevran's hand slides from his cock, and Alistair tries to thrash upright, to fix the mess his stupid mouth has made _again_ , and the sex is fun, the sex is _great_ , but the thought of losing that isn't what's feeding the desperation inside him, all he cares about is not letting Zevran leave-

A strong hand on his chest shoves him back down, and before he can sit up again, Zevran is astride his waist, leaning down with his hair shielding his face to put his mouth by Alistair's ear. "No, amado," he says, voice rough, "not too much at all."

It's not easy, and Zevran doesn't make it easier, but Alistair manages to get his hands and a little distance between them so he can cup Zevran's face, pushing his hair back so he can't hide behind it. His smile is mocking, crooked, and Alistair hates it, even if it is all self-mockery. "If it wasn't too much, then why are you making that face?"

The other corner of Zevran's mouth curves up, his smile now more wry than mocking. "Well enough," he says. "It _was_ too much, but that does not mean it was bad. Only...surprising." He ducks his head from Alistair's grip and kisses him, then murmurs, "Espero que siempre me sorprenderás, amado."

Alistair frowns in confusion. "What?"

"Nothing," Zevran says, kissing him again. "I will teach you Antivan some other time." He sits up and reaches behind himself for Alistair's cock, his hand warm and slick as he strokes it back to hardness. "For now, I think we have other things we could be doing?"

The only thing Alistair can manage is a choking noise, but Zevran grins. "I will take that as a yes, amado," he says, and Alistair thinks that he really will have to make Zevran tell him what that word means.

But maybe not right now, not when Zevran is smiling down at him and arching into his fingers as they skim over the tattoos. And not right now, either, not when Zevran is crouched above him, watching his face as he lowers himself slowly onto Alistair's cock. It's as overwhelming in its own way as being fucked, all that tight heat sliding down his length, hotter and tighter than a fist could ever be, and he grabs the blankets to keep himself still.

"Give me your hands," Zevran says, and when Alistair does, he presses one to his hip and wraps the other around his cock, and Alistair decides that he doesn't care if the world ends right now.

Zevran rocks forward and back, and Alistair can't stop the noise it pulls from his throat, something high-pitched that he might be embarrassed by in other circumstances, except that Zevran rocks against him again, and again. The curve of his hipbone fits neatly under Alistair's palm, the muscles in his leg tensing and relaxing as his cock slides through the fingers of Alistair's other hand.

One of Zevran's hands guides his, teaching him how hard and where to stroke. At the same time, Zevran holds him back, keeps his movements slow, far slower than the rapid thrust of his hips. Alistair tries to stroke faster, and Zevran's fingers tighten so he can't move his hand at all. "None of that," Zevran says. "Or at least, not yet."

If Alistair had any blood left in his brain, he might be able to explain that he doesn't want to be the one to finish first _again_ , but as he tries to get his mouth to work, he makes the mistake of looking down. Zevran's cock is dark and swollen between his fingers, and he's hit with the desire to suck it the way Zevran sucked him last night.

Not that he's anywhere near flexible enough for that, but the thought of it, combined with Zevran whispering, "Jodeme, jodeme, jodeme," while his ass clenches tight around Alistair's cock is too much. His hips move instinctively, meeting Zevran thrust for thrust, and when Zevran pinches one of his own nipples, Alistair loses the last shred of his control and cries out, spending himself in hard spasms that feel like his whole body is trying to turn itself inside out.

Zevran's hand slides under his, moving in the quick strokes he wouldn't let Alistair make a few minutes ago. Alistair barely has enough control to open his eyes, but he bats at Zevran's hand anyway. "No," he mumbles.

"No?" Zevran asks with amusement. At least his hand stops moving.

"I want to suck you," Alistair says, and he only blushes a little.

"Are you sure?" Zevran asks, the words not entirely steady.

"I want to know what you taste like." He's definitely blushing more than a little, but it's worth it for the look on Zevran's face, all want and need and _now_.

He's clumsy and uncoordinated at first, dizzy from everything that's happened, and he nearly falls off the bed before they get settled, Zevran propped against the headboard and Alistair stretched out between his legs, eyeing Zevran's cock like it might bite him. This suddenly doesn't seem like such a good idea: he has no idea what he's doing, and he suspects it's about to become painfully obvious.

"You don't need to do this," Zevran says, after a long pause in which Alistair does nothing but stare at his cock. "Just because we do other things today does not mean you will never again have a chance at this."

"I want to," Alistair says. "I just don't want to do it wrong."

"Trust me, querido. Mind your teeth, and you will be fine."

Somehow, Alistair doesn't think it's that easy, but he can't very well lie here all morning. Tentatively, he leans forward and licks the head, just one quick touch. There's a lingering trace of bitterness, but mostly it just tastes like Zevran, and that's a taste Alistair is growing to love. He licks it again, less hesitantly this time, letting his tongue probe the slit and explore under the head, listening to Zevran breathe. His breaths are still even, and that's not what Alistair wants.

He shifts position, sliding forward a few inches so his face is directly over Zevran's hips, and wraps his lips around the head of Zevran's cock. One deep breath of his own, and then he tries to take all of it in on the first stroke, only to gag and pull back, coughing. Zevran doesn't laugh, thank the Maker.

"Use your hand, querido, move it together with your mouth." Obediently, Alistair curls his fingers around the shaft, and Zevran gives a pleased hum. "Yes, like that."

That's easier, his mouth and his fist together, and when he gets them working in tandem, he can hear Zevran's breathing pick up speed. Still cautious but gaining confidence, he pulls back a little, sucking on the head while his hand works the whole length of Zevran's cock. The shaft is slick from his mouth, his hand sliding easily, and Zevran's hips move beneath him in a very gratifying way.

The next time his mouth follows his hand down, he can taste the sweat from his palm and it makes him shiver, tasting himself on Zevran. Hardly thinking about what he's doing, he shifts his weight to free one hand, so he can fuck Zevran with two fingers. It's almost more than he can manage, moving his mouth while each hand moves in a different direction, but when his searching fingers find the right spot, Zevran hisses and his whole body jerks.

"Mirame," he gasps. "Look at me."

Puzzled but willing, Alistair tilts his head enough to meet Zevran's eyes without letting go of his cock. Their gazes meet for half a second before Zevran's head falls back and his back arches, his fingers curling into tight fists as he spills into Alistair's mouth.

It's bitter, which is startling, and there's more of it than he'd expected, and he only just stops himself from pulling back. Still, as much as he dislikes the taste, Alistair would gladly do this again for the chance to watch Zevran fall apart. His own cock is half hard again, and he's breathless from more than exertion as Zevran relaxes back onto the bed.

"Siempre me sorprenderás," Zevran murmurs. His eyes are half-lidded, and he's giving Alistair a smile that's not making his cock any less hard. "Para siempre."

"Is it too much to hope that's a compliment?" Alistair asks.

Zevran laughs and runs his fingers through Alistair's hair. "Do not fear, amado, you were perfect."

"I didn't feel perfect," Alistair mutters, but he's smiling back.

"Then come up here and let me fix that." The teasing note in his voice is one Alistair has heard a thousand times, though never combined with that particular expression.

Alistair crawls up the bed to flop out beside him, and to his surprise, Zevran kisses him. It's no light peck, either: his tongue moves over every inch of Alistair's mouth, as if he's trying to taste himself. When he finally pulls back, Alistair is all the way to hard, and a little embarrassed by how readily his body responds to any touch from Zevran.

It's not exactly something he can hide, and his attempts to pull the blanket over himself only succeed in drawing Zevran's attention.

"Would this, then, be the infamous Grey Warden stamina?" Zevran asks, and he's teasing again. With more than words, too: his fingers are touching the head of Alistair's cock, very lightly.

Alistair makes a vague noise and kisses him again, not interested in talking so long as Zevran keeps doing what he's doing.

"My apologies," Zevran says, putting his mouth by Alistair's ear. "I did not quite catch that. Did you want me to stop?"

"Maker," Alistair says. "Maker, why are you torturing me?"

Zevran chuckles, low and warm, then slides out of his grasp. "Sit on the edge of the bed, amado, and I will torture you some more."

With a groan, Alistair hauls himself into position while Zevran pads around the room. "How are you going to do that, when you're all the way over there?"

There's a gleam in Zevran's eyes when he turns, a suggestion of a smirk that implies those words may be taken as a challenge at some future date. Alistair decides he's looking forward to it.

Today, however, is not that day; Zevran is coming back toward him with a wet cloth in his hands. It's cold against Alistair's skin, and his cock is definitely unhappy with him by the time Zevran finishes and tosses the cloth aside.

"I was hoping you didn't mean torture literally," Alistair says.

Zevran gives him a very feline smile from where he kneels between Alistair's feet. "I didn't," he says, just before he takes Alistair's cock into his mouth.

He has all the skill that Alistair lacks, which isn't a big surprise, and Alistair tries to pay attention, to learn something. It doesn't work very well, not when Zevran seems determined to make Alistair as hard as possible, as fast as possible. He sucks and licks and scrapes gently with his teeth, making Alistair incoherent with need, and then his lips slide down all the way to the base. Watching his cock disappear into Zevran's mouth, one slow inch at a time, is enough to push Alistair right to the edge.

Zevran swallows around the head, his throat pressing in, and Alistair's skin feels like it's burning up, the heat inside him too intense to contain, until he can't contain it anymore and it's pouring out of him in waves as his vision goes grey.

Somehow he manages to stay upright, though the room is swinging in wide arcs by the time he knows where he is again.

"Was that the sort of torture you had in mind?" Zevran asks innocently.

Alistair looks down at him. He's wearing the same feline smirk from earlier, looking indescribably pleased with himself, with no sign of the face Alistair knows he himself probably made after his own foray into sucking cock.

"Do you like the taste?" The words are out before he can stop them, and he feels like an idiot. As if he hasn't already revealed his inexperience enough in the last two days.

"It is...an acquired taste," Zevran says. He's still smirking, but he doesn't appear to be mocking Alistair.

"But you've...acquired it?" It's too late to pretend he didn't ask the question, so he might as well get an answer. "You like it now?"

"Mmmm." Zevran's smirk fades into something more thoughtful. "Let us say that I like what it means."

"What it means?"

Zevran unfolds from his knees to climb into Alistair's lap, nuzzling into the hollow of his throat, and Alistair wraps his arms around him. "I like giving you pleasure, amado," he says into Alistair's throat. "I like knowing it was my mouth that brought you to that."

"I...oh." All right, maybe he does understand.

He also understands that having Zevran naked against him is more than a little arousing, despite the exhaustion that's finally creeping in.

"And I could do it again, if you like," Zevran says, his hand drifting down between their bodies.

The yawn comes out of nowhere and makes Alistair's jaws ache. Zevran chuckles. "Or maybe later?"

"Later," Alistair agrees. "Maker, I'm tired. Well, most of me is," he adds, a little aggravated by his body's conflicting needs.

"Later will be here soon enough," Zevran says, crawling over him and under the blankets. "Lay down, querido. I promise to make sure you are well-rested before I do any interesting things to your body."

Alistair snorts, unable to think of a suitable response, and joins Zevran under the blankets, feeling a strange, not unpleasant sense of dislocation. Every bit of the last two days is impossible: he shouldn't be alive, and the archdemon shouldn't be dead, and Zevran shouldn't be here with him, like this.

And yet, he is, it is, and Zevran is. All impossible, but they persist in being true anyway. Maybe he can hope for one more impossibility?

They're tangled together, Zevran's head under his chin, and that makes the question easier. "You'll stay?" he asks cautiously.

"I'll stay," Zevran says on a sigh. He kisses Alistair's chest and smiles. "At least until we must leave for Amaranthine."

**Author's Note:**

> The "Antivan" in here is Spanish, and if I'm lucky, I didn't screw it up.
> 
> Duérmete: Go to sleep.  
> Querido (mio): (my) dear/darling  
> Amado: beloved  
> Espero que siempre me sorprenderás: I hope you will always surprise me/I hope you will surprise me forever.  
> Jodeme: Fuck me.  
> Mirame: Look at me.  
> Siempre me sorprenderás: You will always surprise me.  
> Para siempre: forever
> 
> I used to know a decent amount of Spanish, but it's been a _really_ long time, so if you see something I've messed up, please let me know. Also, they don't teach you the fun words in school, so I'm completely relying on the internet about the meaning of joder. Google translate says I've got all this stuff right, but I don't know that I trust it with irregular verbs, not to mention imperative and subjunctive conjugations, and let's not even talk about colloquialisms. And oh god, I feel like such a geek that I even know those words.
> 
> ETA: Thank you to [mignonne422](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mignonne422/pseuds/mignonne422) for the Spanish help!!!


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